The Cliff
by izzygone
Summary: Sherlock is nothing if not calculating and persistent. If he wants to see John come twice in one night, no doubt he has the patience to ensure it happens. Even if it takes all night. (Companion piece to The Slope)


A/N: I originally meant my last story, The Slope, to be a plotless oneshot. Then I was inspired. The threads of plot are pretty thin, though, it's mostly pwp. I suspect this series will be 3 parts.

This second piece is a little darker than the first part. Each piece stands on its own or can be read as a series. Please note that the consent here is dubious at best and definitely Stockholm-esque.

Also, I'm in the market for a beta. Contact me if you're interested!

By the time John wakes, Sherlock is already slipping two fingers in and out of his arse.

He's not surprised to find Sherlock in his bed – Sherlock deemed the entire flat up to and including John's bedroom and bed to be his own and John had long lacked the energy and willingness to deny Sherlock anything. He's not particularly surprised that Sherlock fits two fingers inside him before beginning to rouse him – he always sleeps naked (it's one of Sherlock's "rules") and he's fucked so thoroughly and often now that he doubts very much that a finger or two will ever not slip inside him without preparation again. He's not even surprised by the ease with which Sherlock's fingers glide in and out of him – he went to bed slick with Sherlock's come and he slept face down in an effort to keep it in him longer.

What does surprise him is that it's only 4am, just 2 hours since Sherlock last fucked him, and already the detective seems ready to go again. John isn't so sure _he_ can go again so quickly, but Sherlock is steadily and relentlessly pressing inside him with the knowledge and skill to gently caress his prostate with each movement so he's starting to squirm and his traitorous cock is beginning to harden.

John can tell you, with precision, the exact number of women he's fucked in his lifetime. He can tell every single position he's ever tried with them, every location of every shag, hell, he could probably give you an exact number for the times he's done the deed with a particular female. How many times he's been fucked by Sherlock Holmes, though… god, it's a blur. Every day, at least twice, for a lifetime it seems – if you include oral sex and hand jobs, that is. The number of times inside the flat alone is over 80, easily. Outside the flat… well, the Yard at least a dozen, if you include being fingered in the supply closets and sucking Sherlock's cock in Lestrade's cruiser.

Once in the alley behind the pub when Sherlock caught him trying to have a night out with his rugby mates.

Another time in the bathroom of the shop when he took too long getting milk.

Three separate times in the bedrooms of murder victims – Sherlock had been particularly vicious those times, and John uncomfortably receptive.

John definitely couldn't count the number of times he'd stroked Sherlock to completion in the back of taxis.

Sherlock had wanted to fuck him in the London Eye, once, but John was just too scared and panicked at the last minute, so Sherlock made him wear an anal plug every day for a week. He ended up kind of liking it, though, and sometimes put it in when Sherlock was gone for too long in a day.

But no matter what, John can't remember a time they had done it twice in two hours – even Sherlock isn't that young. But here they are, John face down on his bed, Sherlock two fingers – oh, three, now – deep in John's arse and John's cock straining against his mattress, arousal blossoming in him like Sherlock _hadn't_ let him come by allowing him rut against the his thigh just a couple hour earlier.

He is fully awake now, trying not to press back against the mind numbing and even rhythm of Sherlock's fingers sliding in and out of him. He can't turn over, can't even shift his head to see the look on Sherlock's face – Sherlock hasn't even acknowledged he is awake, let alone given him permission to move.

"I was just thinking," Sherlock's voice breaks through the silence and John almost physically _flinches_ hearing it, but that would be all sorts of bad – John liked to be punished, or his body and his cock liked it, but his mind was smarter. Or at least smart enough, "The murder at the casino, the lampshade was green… we should revisit the crime scene tomorrow."

John grunts in acknowledgement. It's difficult to think about the case with Sherlock invading him like this. Then again, Sherlock rarely cares if or what John thinks about the case. He's humming a bit now, musing aloud about the evidence in the casino case and the infinite stupidity of the suspects involved, but John doesn't hear it. He's totally lost in the movement of Sherlock's fingers as they alternate soft and rough touches against his prostate, filling him one or two at a time as they slide in and out, never enough to fill him all the way. He wants to arch back.

No, that isn't it.

He wants to stop… he wants to sleep. He doesn't want Sherlock's fingers inside him, and he definitely doesn't want his flatmate's cock in him… gliding in and out, using his earlier come as lube, bottoming out in a way that mostly hurt but also felt right when it should have felt wrong. He _doesn't_.

_Fuck_ and John's cock is swelling, heavy and hot, crushed under his own body because he can't move, can't flip over without Sherlock's permission. And he can't ask for it; the last time he'd tried that, Sherlock left him naked in the middle of the living room for a full day, no food, no water, just kneeling. He'd only been saved from soaking in his own piss by the dehydration, and Mycroft had stopped by and just ignored him, looked right through him as he and Sherlock chatted about the goddamn state of the British embassy in Buenos Aires. And fuck him if John hadn't been half hard nearly the entire time.

Sherlock's voice gets lower and closer, like he's leaning over John. Perhaps he will fuck him now? But no, he seems to want to whisper in John's ear, "I'm going to do an experiment," he hisses, and John's cock spasms, full with a mind of its own, hot enough to burn where it's pressed against his skin between him and his mattress. _Fuck_, experiments do not turn John on. They do not.

"I'm not going to fuck you with my cock," he continues, lingering on each word, "But I am going to fuck you."

This is a rarity – Sherlock isn't interested in getting himself off. He'll force John to, though, that much is obvious. It's still too soon, though, John knows it. He still feels raw and depleted and how is he going to come if he has nothing left in him?'

But Sherlock is nothing if not calculating and persistent. If he wants to see John come twice in one night, no doubt he has the patience to ensure it happens. Even if it takes all night.

Sleep deprivation… not an uncommon tactic for Sherlock, though this is a new method. Usually, Sherlock just plucks discordant notes on his violin as John attempts to catch a moment or two of restful sleep. Or he experiments with chemicals or guns or throwing knives. John is only able to really sleep when Sherlock is also sleeping – though it isn't a rest John would consider "peaceful." There's nothing peaceful about never knowing when a mad man will torture you.

"Would you like that, John?" Sherlock asks, almost sweetly, innocently, "To be my little experiment?"

John presses his face into his pillow, trying to smother his automatic reaction which is to furiously nod. He can almost feel Sherlock smirking behind him.

Abruptly, Sherlock removes his fingers. John feels hollow again, cold, and he automatically thrusts backward, seeking the warmth of Sherlock's touch. He's rewarded by a gentle caress over his naked cheeks, "There, there," Sherlock breathes, "I won't leave you empty for long." The "_I never do_" is implied.

John stops breathing and waits. His whole body is tense with anticipation and his stomach feels sticky where his cock is hard and pressed against it. It's throbbing and painful, but John still can't move. Not until he has permission.

"Well lift up," Sherlock says, exasperated and indicating John's hips, as if he's given the command already and John is just too dumb and slow to respond. But that can't be – John knows already Sherlock does not repeat himself. Ever.

He's exhausted and weak and uncomfortable, but he shuffles his knees forward so his arse is lifted off the bed, presenting it for Sherlock's use. There's a moment of sweet relief as the weight of his body on his cock is removed and shifted onto his elbows. He waits, face down in the pillow, unable to see and perhaps even a bit glad for that fact.

He feels the bed move as Sherlock shifts and lifts something from the bed stand. John wonders idly how long it will be before whatever-it-is is in his arse.

Something cold, heavy and distinctly metal touches the skin of his back and he shivers and almost jumpa. He can't tell exactly what it is, but Sherlock swipes it up and down his spine, gently. It isn't round, which worries him; it definitely has corners but it isn't a box. Finally, Sherlock lays it flat against him so he can feel its full shape.

It's his gun.

Oh god, _oh god_, Sherlock is pointing John's own gun into his back and he feels the barrel of it, and _fuck_ he wants to say something. He wants to say _I was never going to use it. I would never use it._ It's for protection. To protect Sherlock, just in case. God, he wasn't ever going to use it… but he's choking on his breath and the pillow and Sherlock already knows. He probably knew the moment John brought it into the flat, and that was months ago now. If John planned to use it, he'd have done so by now. He knew John had it but wasn't going to use it and let him keep it the whole time. Fuck him, but it felt good knowing Sherlock trusted him, even with a gun.

He still can't breathe because the metal is like ice and Sherlock is trailing it lower and lower, rubbing it against the cleft of his arse and fuck; John is frozen in terror.

Behind him, Sherlock is laughing and rocking the barrel between John's buttock, finally saying between chuckles, "Don't worry, I'm not going to fuck you with it," and John is relieved but hesitant because sometimes Sherlock means "right now" and sometimes he means "ever."

And the cold press of the steel is gone again and Sherlock is shifting around on the bed so he's sitting up. He picks another item off the bed stand but doesn't put down the gun and John wants to relax, wants to make this, whatever it's going to be, easier on himself but he can't because goddamn, Sherlock knows about his gun.

Something different, something heavy and firm but not metal is lying across John's arse. It's solid and rounded and John feels it's size, and god, he's going to need to relax. There's a moment of quiet as Sherlock moves, he puts the gun down and John starts to breathe again, each breath shaky and harsh in his lungs. He hears the flip of a cap, and the audible _sahloosh_ of the lubricant as Sherlock slides his hand over the shaft of the vibrator. He lifts and moves so he's kneeling between John's parted thighs and presses it against his entrance, "You're going to want to relax," he says with a hint of amused malice coloring his voice, and John takes in shallow, desperate breaths, trying to ignore the gun that he knows is on the nightstand, right by his face, probably. Maybe even pointing at him. Sherlock pushes and John grunts, his body resists for a moment but then relaxes. It's practiced at accepting things by now.

There's an excruciating minute of silence as John feels himself stretched out, wide and accommodating and still a little scared. He feels overwhelmed, filled to capacity. Sherlock is kind and lets him adjust to the girth of the toy. John almost sighs with relief at the calm but then without warning, Sherlock turns on the vibration and John doesn't even try to stop the moans that spill from his throat against the pillow. It doesn't hurt, really – he's had more inside him at once – maybe it feels good. Oh fuck, it does feel good because he's full and that's what he needs. He needs to always be full. He resists the temptation to start fucking himself on it because Sherlock hasn't told him he could and do doubt the detective has a plan, so he just waits as Sherlock reaches back to the nightstand and in an instant, the gun is back against John's spine, barrel pressing sharply in.

"I want you to make yourself come," Sherlock says, the hard ridge of the barrel pressing even harder into John's ribs, "You can fuck yourself on _this_," He makes a gentle twisting motion with the vibrator and John whimpers because _fuck_, that hits his glands just right, "And you can rut against the bed, but don't you dare use your hands." John can feel the smirk in Sherlock's voice, "And if you take too long… well," He jams the gun harder against John's back, "You know how I get when I get bored."

Oh, no, _oh no_. This isn't happening. This can't be real because John knows, he _knows_ his gun was loaded when it lay in the drawer. He knows because he filled the magazine himself and fuck, _oh fuck_, this can't be real. Sherlock can't be pointing a loaded gun between his ribs. And John can't still be hard because he's terrified and he doesn't get off on fear, but while it should be deflating, his erection is swelling and the vibration against his prostate feels glorious and counterbalancing to the slow warming of the steel.

John has absolutely no doubts that Sherlock could shoot him dead, right here, right now, and dispose of his body such that not a soul could prove a thing. With Mycroft's help, they could probably make it so no one even suspected.

"Tick tock," Sherlock clucks behind him, twisting the barrel of the gun against John's overheated skin.

_Fuck_, this is real and John needs to get himself together because Sherlock wants him to do this, and he can't say no to Sherlock, not ever. But how can he manage? Even if he weren't desperate and terrified by the gun to his back, he's in no shape to come twice in one night. Then again, by that logic, he shouldn't even be hard right now. John is a fighter, afterall, and he isn't about to start losing now. Tentatively, he moves forward, gently thrusting his cock against the warm fabric of his sheets, staining them with threads of precome. It feels good though it probably shouldn't, and he pushes backward, further impaling himself on the toy which Sherlock grips steadily behind him. He can feel the vibration everywhere, not just his prostate but throughout his entire body. It's strange but not unpleasant though it should probably burn with the soreness of being mercilessly fucked against the shower wall by Sherlock mere hours earlier.

Slowly, as if his whole body aches or maybe he's just thoroughly tired from trailing Sherlock the whole day or from cleaning the flat wearing nothing but a cock ring and a gag, John moves forward again, dragging his cock against the mattress again. He moans because it feels like heaven as his precome slicks over him, easing the dangerous amount of friction. He repeats these motions a few times. It feels nice and John enjoys setting his own pace, something he hadn't done once since coming to 221B, but they both know he can't get off from this. Behind him, the ever impatient detective chimes in, "Come on doctor, you can do better than this." John knows he's right so he starts to rock with a little more urgency though the vibrator feels a little raw against his hole and he's trying to forget the gun pointed between his ribs.

One shot right there, from this distance would kill him. God, he'd be dead so fast, he wouldn't have time to feel the pain. But Sherlock wouldn't. He couldn't, right? No, he'd never done anything to deliberately hurt John. His cruelty is entirely accidental, John knows. Sherlock is just too quick and too clever, he gets excited and doesn't take the time to explain what he's doing and why, and John is too dull and too slow and doesn't realize Sherlock is just going what John needs. Sherlock is the only person who knows what John needs.

Maybe John needs a gun against his back. No doubt he needs the vibrator – he's a filthy little cock slut who needs this kind of thing. Sherlock tells him so all the time. He needs this to feel whole. And, fuck him, he does feel whole. With Sherlock behind him, letting him fuck himself on the vibrator and against the bed, he is whole and he has everything he needs.

Of course, Sherlock isn't going to hurt him. In fact, the detective probably unloaded the clip before he even woke John. Yes, that was it. John was just too slow and too tired to see it before now. Sherlock would never, ever really hurt him. Not intentionally.

Renewed and comforted by this revelation, John really starts moving. He pushes back, arching so the vibration hits his prostate just so, making him positively whine and grunt as he thrusts forward, his cock chafing against the cooling, moist fabric below. His motions aren't slow but they're steady and John begins to feel, actually, a bit good. He thinks – for a second – maybe it could be like this with him and Sherlock. Sherlock could fuck him like this, with this steady and soothing rhythm. Like he did in John's fantasies. John knows better than to ask for it, though.

It's a lazy and shallow fucking, and he hasn't experienced anything like it before. Sherlock never fucks him this slowly. Sherlock never does anything slowly.

John knows he could come from this, but he doesn't even want to. He just wants to experience it. Every stroke against his prostate seems made for him, and he almost smiles before remembering that this isn't for him: Sherlock is still behind him and is starting to lose patience.

"I don't have all night," He says, a touch of boredom and annoyance coloring his voice. Like John is making him late for something. He turns the vibrator up a notch.

John stops. It's like someone hit the pause button on his life. He can't process what's happening. He can't even feel, the sensation overwhelms him, coming upon him like a tornado. His eyelashes flutter. His mouth goes dry. He no longer feels his cock against the cotton on the bed below, he no longer feels his knees or elbows straining from the position. He only feels the intensity of the vibration.

It's only when he hears Sherlock licking his lips that John realizes he is, in fact, still moving. He's moving furiously, back and forth so quickly he's surprised he doesn't lose balance. The vibration as he slides back and forth, grinding his prostate against it with precision, is enough to overwhelm him. Or should be enough. Any other day, this sort of single-minded attention would bring him to climax without a single stroke of his cock, but he can't. _God_, he feels like he's on a precipice. He's so close, it feels torturously good, rutting against the bed and the pleasure-but-wait-is-that-pain of vibrator filling him. But he can't, god, he can't. Sherlock still has the gun (unloaded, it must be unloaded) digging into the doctor's back and it's distracting and bordering on painful and definitely terrifying.

"Bored, John," Sherlock mentions, casually, using the same how-could-you-be-so-tedious voice he uses when John falls a step behind on a case. John doesn't know what to do, _fuck_, he's trying so hard. His body just can't. It's too soon. It's too much.

Behind him, Sherlock moves, adjusts, and John hears a click. The distinct, cannot-be-mistaken click of a bullet being chambered.

Oh god, _oh god_. That is not the sound of an unloaded weapon. John knows guns, he knows his own gun. It's the same gun he's had half of his adult life. You can't chamber bullets that don't exist.

Sherlock is pointing a loaded gun at his back – and there's no manual safety on the military-issued Sig – a bullet definitely chambered. Oh fuck, _oh fuck_, oh god, John could die. He could die right here. What would Sherlock tell his family? That John died on a case, maybe. That he died a hero, even. There'd be a funeral with a military salute. No one would come, though, because John cut off all ties with everyone he used to know before he moved here with Sherlock.

He's shaking, it's impossible to stop. _The gun, the gun, he could die, he could die_. It fills his whole mind like it did in Afghanistan. He never thought he'd be this scared again, and Sherlock is laughing at him. The pillow is wet, and he realizes he's crying. God, he's sobbing, it's wracking his body. _Blanks_. Sherlock must have reloaded the gun with blanks. They have to be blanks. John tries so hard to believe the bullet chambered must be a blank. Even blanks, though, at this range, could kill or seriously injure him. He's a doctor and an officer. He knows these things all too well.

Sherlock presses harder on the gun, twists the vibrator in John's arse and starts moving it out of John's quivering body. He is going to fuck John, just like he said, "I'm going to help you," Sherlock coos, not moving the gun, "I'm going to help you because I know what you need," John sobs and sobs and nods his head furiously. Sherlock knows what he needs. Sherlock will take care of this problem for him because he needs to come, he needs to. There's so much pressure inside him and he's on the edge of something glorious and debilitating.

Suddenly, Sherlock heaves the vibrator forward so it rams against John's hypersensitive glands, causing sparks behind his lidded eyes, and bottoms out inside him in way that hurts, _fuck_, it hurts because he's raw and it's rough and he's coming. Oh god, he's coming before he even realizes what's happening. It doesn't feel good, it feels draining and a bit like trying to get the last bit of soda from a glass filled with ice using a straw.

Sherlock removes the vibrator immediately, in a swift and efficient motion for which John is glad. Being filled for even a moment longer would be torturous. Then Sherlock pulls away, taking the gun from against John's ribs with him and John collapses into the minuscule pool of his own come. He thinks it's from relief, but he's still sobbing. His whole body quakes, he can't get enough air into his lungs, and the pillow is suffocating. Why, why, _god why_? Why did Sherlock do that to him?

He feels a cool hand on his back and hears the soothing sounds of Sherlock's voice, "Shhhh, shhhh, John, it's okay. You did well, you did so well. Shhhh," John nods and sniffles, trying to calm his tears, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers behind him, "I didn't mean to scare you. You don't need to worry, I would never hurt you," Sherlock rubs his hand up and down his back, gently over the bruise forming where the gun dug in, "You know I would never hurt you, right?"

John nods furiously. Sherlock would never hurt him. God, he knows that. Still, he's shaking, can't seem to stop it.

Sherlock lies down next to him, pulls him back so John is curled in beside him. He put the gun and the vibrator back in the drawer and now it's just him. It's just Sherlock. John leans into him, wants to feel his skin, cool and smooth, as Sherlock continues to coo and sooth, petting John's skin and reminding him: _it's okay. You're safe_. John swallows his sobs, Sherlock cleans his tears with a soft handkerchief. He kisses John once on the cheek, "Shush now, I'm here. I won't let anyone hurt you. Just go to sleep."

John feels like he's melting, leaning, relying on Sherlock heavily. He's asleep before he can even nod.

Three days later, while Sherlock is out visiting his brother, John sneaks back to his room and checks the gun in the drawer. Nine bullets in the magazine. One still chambered. And they aren't blanks.


End file.
